On August 26, 2015, I drove our 1985 Volkswagen Westfalia camper van into Mexico from the US, not once, but twice. Seated beside me was my numero uno go-to-gal, R, and behind us on the bench seat playing the video game “Plants vs Zombies” on their screens, our two children, Coconut and J (not their real names). We were just beginning our year-long road trip through Mexico and Central America. That trip changed the direction of our lives. After we returned to Alexandria, Virginia, we quickly realized we couldn’t (or didn’t want to) fit back into the US lifestyle. So we moved to Mexico.
I bring this up not to rehash the story (you can read about it starting here), but to let you know that the life-changing journey that began that day in August 2015, has, in a sense, come to an end. On November 13, 2021, R drove the van from our home in Mexico to the US for the last time.
In the Mexican desert.
No, she is not divorcing me. Arguably, it’s even worse than that. But to those regular readers of this blog who have grown as attached as we have to the rusty, old box of metal on wheels that we call Wesley, don’t get your undies in a bunch. We aren’t getting rid of the thing. After living the van life with Wesley over the course of 2015-2016 when we drove from Alexandria to Panama City, Panama, and back, and then again during two summer road trips between Mexico and the US, R and I are as committed to it as we are to Coconut and J. That is to say, R won’t let me sell any of them.
You’ve heard of weeds growing around the tires of a wreck? How about flowers growing out of the windows?
The reason R drove Wesley out of Mexico is because we are lawyers, and when left with no other options, we follow the law. And the law in Mexico, dumb as it may be, is that (1) a once-imported vehicle can never be rebranded as a Mexican-plated vehicle, and (2) you cannot have a foreign-plated vehicle registered to your name if you are a permanent resident of Mexico. I’m not exactly sure why these laws exist. It’s either because of the North American Free Trade Act (NAFTA) or the fact that Mexico doesn’t want the streets crowded with old junkers.
We knew of these restrictions when we moved to Mexico in 2018 as temporary residents. As temporary residents, however, we could have a vehicle here with foreign plates (in Wesley’s case, US plates). Now that the four years of our temporary residency have passed, we need to apply for permanent resident status or begin the process of temporary residency all over again.
Since we don’t want to begin the temporary process all over again, we need to apply for permanent residence or leave the country. Since we don’t want to leave the country, we have to get our foreign-plated vehicle permanently out of the country. And it can’t come back. Ever. It’s kind of like that time I got ejected from Action Park in Vernon, New Jersey, because I was yanking on the gas pedal of the mini-speed boat to make it go faster and the ride attendant caught me and threw me out of the park. I haven’t been back since. Looking back on it now, I kind of get it. But in Wesley’s case, it’s been told to leave but hasn’t done anything wrong.
Despite this lack of culpability, the law is the law. With no other options, R offered to climb into the captain’s seat and drive Wesley to Virginia. Which she did over the course of ten days in November. It was the fourth time Wesley made the trip, and like the others, it was without incident (unless you consider it an “incident” that R almost drove into a pothole the size of Utah; blew a fuse while using the electrical outlet to run the space heater, causing her to have to sleep in her ski clothes; and had to run the van in neutral while stopped at traffic lights and continually step on the gas to prevent Wesley from stalling).
There were few thoroughfares that Wesley couldn’t navigate during our year-long overland trip in Mexico and Central America. This “road” near Semuc Champey in Guatemala was one of them.
Wesley’s first brush with snow. January 2022.
But depositing Wesley in my in-laws’ driveway where it will hibernate through a Mid-Atlantic winter was only step one of the process. Step two of the process, which is made up of many mini-steps, began in late November when R found the Inmigracion (Mexican immigration) website and made appointments for all of us to present our application for permanent residence. Sparing you the details of how many days it took for R to complete the online process to make four separate appointments on January 3 (one appointment for each of us), the next mini-step was to complete the application form. The application itself can’t be filed online; it has to be handed to an Inmigracion officer, in person, which is why we needed appointments. Of course, to make things easy, the fill-able application form is available online. Sparing you the details of how many days it took for her to complete four applications (one for each of us), the next mini-step was to pay the application fee. To pay the fee, one has to go to the bank with the completed application fee form. The fee per person was roughly $6,000 pesos (about $300 US) and is payable only in cash, which meant we had to go to the ATM to make a withdrawal. Our withdrawal limit is $12,000 pesos per day, so paying the application fee for four people took two days. R assures me that this is all much easier and cheaper than the application process with US immigration (which she has previously completed for hundreds of clients in her immigration law practice). Then, we waited.
Finally, January 3 arrived. R’s appointment was at nine, mine and Coconut’s at ten, and J’s at 12:30, because, in Mexico, it makes more sense to process a family individually rather than together. Despite our different appointment times, we all went to the office together in hopes that someone in the Mexican bureaucracy would have mercy and allow us all to be handled together. No dice. In fact, R was informed at her appointment that the application fee (which we had just paid a few days earlier using the only application fee form available on the Mexican immigration website) had increased by roughly $500 pesos per person with the new year. We had to return home, complete and print the new application fee forms (one for each of us), go to the ATM, then to the bank to pay the difference, and then back to Inmigracion with the bank receipts. I’m leaving out the part where we had to also complete, print, and submit change of address forms because we have moved since we arrived in Mexico in 2018. I’m also leaving out the part where I had to go to the papeleria (stationary store) to make copies of our US passports, Mexican temporary residency cards (which we were about to give up for permanent residency cards), and all of the application paperwork. Still, R promises me this is much simpler than the US process.
As we walked out of Inmigracion at 2:30 on January 3 (we had arrived at 9 a.m.) with our stamped paperwork in hand, I felt like I do at an amusement park. The hours I’ve wasted standing in line waiting to get on the roller coaster listening to the people behind me talk over each other about whether Tony survived the last episode of The Sopranos temporarily forgotten during the 45-seconds of exhilaration while I am on the ride.
Unfortunately, even this wasn’t the end of the process. Once our applications were approved, we still had go back to Inmigracion to have our photos taken and receive our residency cards. Miraculously, the approval happened quickly, and we were scheduled for our follow-up on January 7. Again, four separate appointments. When I was finally called in for my 10 a.m. appointment at 11:30, I had to answer a few questions - what was my occupation, height, weight, religion, and favorite movie starring Jim Carrey - before the officer stuck a camera in my face and took my photo.
The result? Perhaps the worst photo ever taken of me. lt looks like my nose, always my most prominent facial feature, is pressed up against a pane of glass. l was only slightly happier with my own card when I saw R’s windswept photo, where they forgot to include her chin. Anyway, all of this might have been worth it if it were the last time I ever had to deal with Inmigracion. But, it’s not. If I ever get a job, change my address, get divorced, get married, or die, I’ll have to go back.
Our permanent residency cards.